


how he takes his tea

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: Coffee No. 7 isn't where Elliott thinks he's going to end up when he accidentally ruins his housemate's thesis. James Bond, the unfairly-attractive proprietor, isn't who he expects to meet while there. Now, if only Elliott actually liked coffee...(or, the one where Elliott isn't Q (yet), Bond owns a surprisingly successful café, MI6 is in for several rude surprises, and yes, you really do need to sign a waiver to drink the coffee)





	how he takes his tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Castillon02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/gifts).



Afanen knocked on Elliott’s door around the time he’d smacked his head against his desk in utter frustration. He’d managed to overload the circuit _again_ ; no doubt she was wondering what he’d done to shut off all of the lights in their flat this time.

“What?” he called, too distraught to be polite. He had no idea how to proceed. The code didn’t work—he’d done something wrong, something basic and elementary, something he just _could not find to save his life_. His project was fucked. _He_ was fucked. If the bug turned out to be a missing closed-paren or a semi-colon, he was going to scream.

“I’m dying,” Afanen announced through the door, “and if I don’t get coffee soon you’ll have to call the police and explain why you killed your beloved housemate with your refusal to buy anything other than tea.”

Elliott rubbed his eyes from underneath his glasses. He felt a knuckle brush one of the lenses and took in another breath. He’d smudged them. _Fuck_.

“Go get coffee then,” he said.

“Fuck you, you’re done with your thesis, go get it for me,” Afanen retorted. “Also, can I open this door or do I have to keep shouting through it? I’m starting to see sound.”

“You’re not done?” Elliott asked. He stood, hitting his knee on his desk in the process. _Fuck_ but that hurt. He opened the door to find Afanen standing on the other side. One look at her expression told him all he needed to know. “What happened?”

“You,” Afanen said, her cheery tone belying her red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “I was just saving. You know what’s left of my work?”

Elliott felt the world spinning, and it only had partially to do with the fact that he hadn’t eaten in over fourteen hours.

“Shit,” Elliott said. “I can—I can fix this. Let me—” He banged his _other_ knee against the door and cursed.

“You might be in almost as bad a shape as I am,” she said, hiccuping. She peered past him into the dark of his room. “I was wondering where all of our mugs had gotten to.”

Afanen shook. Remembering she didn’t like to be touched, Elliott didn’t hug her, though he desperately wanted to. He’d fucked her over, and— _double shit_ , she had to submit her thesis tomorrow, didn’t she?

“Fuck,” Elliott said. “Let me just—get the power. We can recover your work, I know it.”

Afanen laughed mirthlessly.

“I’m dead,” she said. “No, wait—I’m way beyond that stage. I am become Death.” She closed her eyes, momentarily wobbling. “You’re buying me coffee to make it up to me, and then you’re going to help me recompile this code so I don’t have to spend another three years sifting through the wreck.”

“Yes, no, we’re not—we can fix this,” Elliott insisted. There had to be a way to fix it. He fumbled around in his room for his wallet and mobile. He stepped on the latter in the process— _nice_ , he thought, just _spectacular_. “I’ll be right back. I’ll bring you a coffee—”

“No, we’re going together,” Afanen said. “I don’t want to stay here alone. I’ll break something if I do.”

“Okay, we’ll run down to the corner store—”

“Coffee shop.”

“Pardon?”

Afanen opened her eyes. “There’s a fancy coffee shop I want to go to. You’re going to buy me a coffee from there.”

“Okay,” Elliott said, the thought so exhausting he thought he might cry. He’d finished his thesis, but he’d been awake for hours working on this personal project of his. He hoped to god this “fancy coffee shop” sold tea, too.

“Ready?” Afanen asked.

“You’re going to need shoes,” Elliott pointed out. She looked at her feet and cursed softly. “I’ll find you a pair.”

“You’re a good housemate,” Afanen said, leaning against a wall.

 _I’m a crap housemate who managed to probably ruin your whole thesis thanks to an ill-timed power surge_ , Elliott thought as he picked his way through her room looking for a pair of flats. When he delivered them to Afanen, she proceeded to put them on the wrong feet and didn’t notice until Elliott pointed it out.

It would be a miracle if they reached the café, Elliott thought, shivering with exhaustion. Afanen seemed set, though, so he double-checked his wallet and prepared to face the sun.

* * *

According to the directions, the shop was halfway across the city. They took the Tube most of the way there; Afanen nearly fell asleep standing upright, and Elliott kept himself awake by periodically prodding her into awareness.

“We’re close now,” Afanen said once, yawning halfway through. “ _Christ_ , this stuff better be as good as I’ve heard because if not, heads will roll.”

Elliott didn’t need to respond. Even without the looming deadline, Afanen had always been serious about her coffee, something he respected. If she’d heard it was good, it better damn well be.

They walked a little less than a block from the station before Afanen abruptly crossed the road, pulling Elliott behind her. She led him to a tiny door, dark wood with a brass knocker.

“I thought we were going to get coffee,” Elliott said.

“We are. We’re here.”

“How—” Elliott began to ask. He didn’t see a sign anywhere.

“I can smell it,” Afanen said, entirely serious. Elliott couldn’t so much as _blink_ at her because she was pulling him forward and through the door.

The little hallway immediately inside opened up to reveal a space much bigger than Elliott had expected. Dark hardwood floors contrasted with cheery yellow walls punctuated by paintings, largely blue. They all seemed to have been done by one J.B., whoever that was. One massive counter spanned the entire right wall, and a queue formed naturally from the door to the register. Whoever had planned it had designed it quite well, placing the register at the far end and a beautifully-lit pastry counter before it such that you couldn’t pay without taking at least a look at the sugary treats within. The beverage list was long but clearly legible even from the door. The prices were on the higher end of reasonable, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Truly, the only oddity was the sheer number of _people_. Afanen and Elliott had found themselves at the end of a long line of customers. The tables neatly arranged around the main room were occupied to a seat, and the counter that sat along the windows that Elliott had missed while on the street was likewise full.

“Can you smell that?” Afanen asked. “That’s the smell of _divinity_. I feel like forgiving you already. Do you know what you want?”

Elliott looked to the beverage list. There were a few tea options up there, but half of them were iced and only one of them looked vaguely enticing.

“Just hot tea,” he said.

“Come on, live a little! This guy’s supposed to have the best coffee in the city,” Afanen said.

“You don’t drink leaf juice, I don’t drink bean juice,” Elliott grumbled.

“Maybe I should get you the _Defibrilator_ ,” Afanen said, not paying attention. “Ooooh, I know I want the _Killshot_.” She elbowed him in the side. “It’s supposed to have Szechuan chili in it and enough caffeine to keep you awake for _days_. I’ll be finished with my thesis in no time flat.”

Elliott simply nodded. He’d spent their little outing thinking deeply about her thesis; as far as he remembered, Afanen had her code all printed out, and there were hard copies of most of the actual text. He’d just have to be careful typing it back up. That said, how much had she gotten done before Elliott’s accidental power outage? They’d have to talk to fill in the gaps—

“Oooh, but then there’s the _Resurrection_ —I’ve heard good stuff about that one. I think it’s Turkish inspired? Something like that.”

“We should get something to eat, too,” Elliott said, gazing at the pastries. Caffeine on an empty stomach did strange things, he’d found.

“Whatever you want, you’re paying.”

“That I am.”

They didn’t speak again until they’d reached the register.

“Hello! Welcome to Coffee No. 7,” the man behind the counter said. Elliott thought he looked like a meth head, but he wasn’t judging—much. “Is this your first time here?”

“Yes,” Afanen said. “We’ve heard it’s the place to be.”

The man smiled hugely and said, “You heard correctly! Before you order, please take note that some of our drinks require you to sign a waiver before you order.”

“A waiver?” Elliott asked.

“They’re strong,” the man said by way of explanation. He tossed in a wink at Afanen as he added, “Not for the faint of heart.”

“I want a _Killshot_ ,” Afanen said. “And he…”

“A hot tea,” Elliott said. “Not iced.”

The man reached under the counter and pulled out a form and a pen. Afanen took both and began signing.

“Wait just a second,” Elliott started, but Afanen held up a finger and that was that. When she finished signing, she slid the form back over, and the man stashed it somewhere Elliott couldn’t see.

“What size _Killshot_?” the man asked. “And the tea?”

“The biggest you’ve got for both. I’m going to need all of the help I can get to survive this thesis,” Afanen said. To Elliott, she added, “There—a spot just opened up. Give me your card and go sit down before someone else does.”

Elliott, operating more on sheer force of will than anything else, followed her directions. He brushed off the newly-vacated table a bit with a napkin and sank gratefully into one of the chairs.

While Afanen waited for their orders to come up, Elliott allowed his eyes to close. For all of the people crowding all around, Coffee No. 7 struck Elliott as comfortable. It smelled like coffee, and even if Elliott hated the taste, the smell had always appealed to him. The room’s acoustics downplayed the general clamour and left it at a manageable buzz. All in all, Elliott thought the place quite nice—if only their tea selection hadn’t turned out to be so abysmal.

“Elliott, if you go to sleep, I swear,” Afanen said, coming to sit down across from him. Elliott cracked open an eye and saw a cup sitting before him alongside a large assortment of pastries. Afanen had certainly been liberal with his suggestion of _food_. “I took the bag out already—I know how you take it. Here’s your card back.”

“Thank you,” Elliott said, returning the card to his wallet. He pulled his mug closer to him, feeling the heat radiate through to his hands. It smelled like decent enough tea, at least. The pastries, on the other hand, looked spectacular.

Afanen sighed contentedly.

“This,” she said, “is _coffee_.”

Elliott eyed her drink with no small degree of suspicion. It was black, not in the way that coffee without cream is black, but _black_ black. Were it just a little more viscous, Elliott would have thought she’d been served sludge. The smell was unmistakably coffee-like, though. How curious.

“If I die,” Afanen said, “make sure I’m cremated.”

“I thought the point of this was that you _didn’t_ die,” Elliott said pointedly. Afanen paid him no heed as she tipped the cup up and took several long drinks.

“Oh,” she said when she came up for air. She stared at Elliott. “That’s _good_. Here, try it.”

Elliott, too tired to argue, took the cup from her.

“Just don’t let the barista see you, he’ll make you sign a waiver, too,” Afanen said. “Just take a sip and tell me if you haven’t reached the next plane of existence.”

Elliott did take a sip. The coffee was hot in more ways than one—there were those chilis. It had barely reached the back of his throat before he caught the taste.

He managed to swallow, at least. His eyes began to water and he felt hot all over. He’d barely managed to set the cup down before he doubled over.

“Shit,” Afanen cursed. “What in the fuck—”

Someone else appeared in Elliott’s swimming vision before she could finish. Afanen fell back in her seat with a _thud_ , and there were hands on Elliott’s shoulders and back.

“Swallow and breathe,” the intruder—another man, older and blond—said. “Breathe through your nose—that’s it.”

Elliott spluttered as he tried to follow the directions. The drink tasted _awful_ , as though someone had taken coffee and somehow made it worse. A bottle of water found its way into his hand, and he drank greedily.

When he managed to get his eyes all of the way back open, he stared openly for several long moments.

The blond man was shorter than he was, though it was hard to tell with him crouched just next to him. His blond hair had been cut short, but up close Elliott could see the streaks of grey. The muscles in his shoulders rippled as he moved—Elliott guessed he could snap the table in two if he wanted to, to say nothing of a person. His shirt, though lose enough for modesty, did nothing to hide the fact that he was built _everywhere_.

Elliott swallowed and coughed. He was _fucked_.

“ _Christ_ ,” he said finally, “that was—hot.”

“It does have chili in it,” the blond man said, as though he hadn’t just saved Elliott from death by toxic bean juice. “Are you all right?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Elliott said. “That was…something.”

“I’m so sorry,” Afanen said.

“Not your fault. I should have known better. I never drink coffee.”

The blond man glanced once at him, then his barely-touched tea. Elliott had the sudden and unmistakable urge to sink into the floor. It wasn’t that he was _embarrassed_ about his tea, but…well. Maybe.

“Hey,” Afanen cut in, “ _some_ of us lost all of our work and need a caffeine drip if they’re going to survive. Can I have it back?” Elliott slid the _Killshot_ across the table.

“Waiver-signers only,” the man said, voice serious.

“It’s fine. It’s hers anyway.”

“You didn’t sign?”

“No,” Elliott said. “I know. I’m an idiot.”

The man snorted.

“Students?” he asked.

“Doctoral,” Elliott confirmed.

“Oh?”

“He successfully defended his thesis yesterday, the _arse_ ,” Afanen said cheerily. She took a small sip of her coffee. “Damn, that’s good stuff.”

“I’m glad you like it,” the blond man said. “It took months before I was satisfied with the kick. Once you get a few sips in it’s easier to drink.”

“Wait, are you the owner?” Afanen asked. The blond man nodded, and she beamed. “Nice to meet you! I’m Afanen. This is Elliott. He doesn’t drink coffee.”

“Obviously. Thanks,” Elliott said, spitting acid. To the blond man, he said, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry for breaking your rules.”

“I’d be offended if someone didn’t try. The name’s Bond. James Bond, and the pleasure is all mine. No coffee, you say?”

“Tea,” Afanen said, wrinkling her nose.

“Not all of us like _bean water_ ,” Elliott said. “No offense to your coffee, Mr. Bond. It smells lovely, but it isn’t my thing.”

“Just James,” James said smoothly. His voice—Elliott couldn’t help but swallow again. He hid it behind a sip of tea, though based off of Afanen’s amused expression, he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“I’m afraid I’ve never had a taste for tea myself,” James continued. “Perhaps you could teach me.”

Elliott nearly choked a second time.

“Of course, you’re busy at the moment,” James said smoothly, “but when you come back, perhaps we could have a little chat? I’m always looking for new ways to add to the menu. Perhaps I might even be able to find a cup of coffee you’d enjoy.”

“Yes—yes,” Elliott stuttered. Across the table, Afanen took an enormous bite of a croissant and made an obscenely loud noise—calculated, no doubt, to draw James’ attention away from Elliott. It worked, and he’d never been more grateful to her. He could tell he was going an alarming shade of red from embarrassment, and the prospect of James’ attention on him for even another second had him swaying in his seat.

He was _fucked_ , Elliott thought, watching James smile as he ensured that they were both all right before he disappeared to the back room. His arse had _no right_ to look half so good in trousers. Just staring at him left Elliott hot all over, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the tea sitting on the table in front of him, half forgotten.

“You’ve got it hard,” Afanen said, sing-song as she drank her coffee.

Elliott laid his head on the table and closed his eyes. Jame’s arse in those trousers danced behind his eyelids.

 _Double_ fucked.


End file.
